The Journey of the Red Leaf

THE JOURNEY OF THE RED LEAF by Steven Thomas Oney

         . . . Then there is the tale of the would-be author who decided to take a summer off and finally get down on paper the long-percolating mystery novel he had been thinking up.  So, at the end of May he took his old typewriter and ascended into his treehouse writing studio that overlooked a scenic millpond and sat down and began to work.

After an hour’s concentration, he leaned back in his chair and happened to notice, on the sprig of a young branch outside his window, that a bud was starting to open  ––a new leaf was forming.  The next day he noticed it again and it occurred to him that the project he was undertaking and the project the tree was up to had many similarities. And so, he began keeping track of its development, noting each day, that as his pages of manuscript multiplied so too did the size and shape of the little leaf.

June gave way to July, then August, and the author began to realize that the day was fast approaching when both projects would be done.  His novel was turning out beautifully ––better than he hoped–– and so too the leaf, having now undergone its almost-chrysalis-like transformation overnight from a dull green color into a now beautiful, red Maple leaf.

That same day, he put the final period to paper, took the manuscript and carefully inserted it into an envelope.  He then carried the envelope to the post office where, riding a crest of rising hope, he dropped it into the outgoing slot.  Returning home, he climbed to the treehouse again and, by coincidence, just happened to be looking in the direction of the red leaf when, just then, its stem let go from the twig. Moving quickly, he peered over the side and watched the red leaf drift down upon the air and gently light upon the surface of the water where it began its journey, borne on unseen currents toward the millpond outlet.

He took this coincidence to be a good omen. That evening, under a waxing moon and a blustery night, he had difficulty sleeping and so returned to the treehouse to finish out the night on his cot and in his sleeping bag.

In his restless mind, his book and the leaf had now become conflated:  his book had turned into the leaf; the leaf was now his book.   Replaying the scene again in his mind, he watched the red leaf light upon the water and saw the gentle current carry it away to the outlet where he imagined it would soon be parading passed publishing houses and in front of a host of literary agents and editors all of whom, who would glance out their windows, and be struck by the handsome red leaf drifting by and they would be moved to investigate.

Awaking the next morning, he was full of optimism.  Eagerly jumping out of bed, he couldn’t help but look over the side, even though he knew it was far too early for any literary results to exist.  Surprisingly, however, there was a result: Peering down, he now saw that the entire surface of the millpond was completely covered shore to shore by other red leaves fallen from other surrounding maples.

He considered this a bad omen.  Crestfallen, he returned to his cot and flopped down on his back.  With so much competition out there, what hope was there now for his own red leaf to be noticed by any publisher?

His agitation brought to mind other scenes of a similar nature:  He remembered the scene from The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and her companions are about to reach the Emerald City, but must first cross a landscape full of millions of identical, red poppies stretching as far as the eye could see.

And he remembered another similar scene from out of another children’s book, Horton Hears a Who which features a kindly elephant who, because of his sensitive hearing, discovers a whole population of tiny beings, called Whos, living inside a single pink clover.  Horton vows to protect the little people  ––“Because a person’s a person, no matter how small­­”–– until a mean-spirited vulture snatches the flower from his grasp and intentionally flies it out over an entire valley covered by millions and millions of identical pink clovers, and drops it from above, challenging Horton to now find that same Whoville-flower among so many.

In his feverish state, the would-be author’s mind was turning over these images and trying to solve his problem: how could his own particular red leaf become as unique as the Whoville-flower?  If only there was something to make it stand out.  If only, for example, there were some means by which, two editors, on a break, standing outside by the riverbank and watching his red leaf drift by, one would turn to the other and say:  “Say, Fred? . . . Look at that red leaf floating by.  Do you hear that?  I think I hear voices.  It sounds like someone’s talking.”

Whereupon, the author suddenly sat bolt-upright in bed and, lifting a finger in the air, he said, “That’s it!  Radio Mystery!”

 

. . . . . TO BE CONTINUED